


things that change, things that stay the same

by Mysecretfanmoments



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Getting Together, M/M, Mutual Pining, POV Alternating
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-26
Updated: 2015-02-26
Packaged: 2018-03-03 14:29:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 8,834
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2854208
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mysecretfanmoments/pseuds/Mysecretfanmoments
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Oikawa realizes he's in love with his best friend; it sucks for a while. (But only a while.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. August

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Nanali](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nanali/gifts).



> My iwaoi getting-together fic; I hope you'll enjoy! x-posted to tumblr in two parts.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rating changes to M in chapter 6. Rest rated T, and can be read alone.

The rhythmic hissing and thunking of the train over familiar tracks lulls Tooru, making him aware of all the aches in his body: the burn in his calves, the heaviness of his arms, the strange, tight feeling in his foot that tells him he pulled something at their practice match. Outside it’s all rice paddies and gently sloping hills, lush green under the blazing summer sun, but the airconditioned train allows him to forget about the oppressive heat outside for a bit, and he stands in a daze.

Until he’s not standing.

The train veers suddenly, with a kh-thunk, and suddenly  _it’s_  moving in a different direction while Tooru is very much  _not_. Before he can fall, though, an arm like an iron bar shoots out to stop his descent onto an unsuspecting businessman and pulls him back onto his feet.

He looks at Iwaizumi round-eyed and a little breathless, surprised—he isn’t clumsy.  _Ever_. His hand-eye coordination is very high above average, as is his balance, and he doesn’t fall over on trains.

But he did.

"You’re working yourself too hard," Iwaizumi says, letting go when he sees Tooru’s collected himself and holding onto one of the handholds again. "You’re asleep on your feet."

"Iwa-chan, so heroic—"

"I mean it," Iwaizumi says, and there’s no  _trashykawa_  or  _assikawa_  or anything to lighten up the mood. When someone near them gets up to exit at the next station, he herds Tooru into the empty seat and stands over him, and Tooru feels like he’s seven again, with a scraped knee or a twisted ankle, and Iwaizumi fussing over him. Iwaizumi’s expression right now is less terrified than it used to get back then, but he’s tight-lipped with concern, and his broad body blocks out other passengers as if their stares might be a danger to Tooru too.

Does he notice the way he’s standing?

"What?" he asks, when he sees the way Tooru’s looking at him, and Tooru feels a sudden awkwardness he’s not used to feeling—awkwardness that’s best covered with a smile.

"Do you remember when I fell through the ice that time we went skating?" he asks, to keep his friend busy.

Iwaizumi’s brow creases. “Yes?”

"And I said I saw rainbow fish?"

Iwaizumi’s mouth twists in his halfhearted version of a smile. “Yeah.”

Tooru had been determined to prove it, at the time. He’d dragged Iwaizumi out to the same lake a day later—after everyone stopped talking about things like  _hypothermia_  and  _possible concussion_ —and told him he was going in again. Iwaizumi had gone in instead, saying Tooru going in again would prove nothing.

When he came out of the dark water gasping, he said he saw the fish and described them. They were just like the fish Tooru had seen, and the two boys had gone straight home after—Iwaizumi sodden, Tooru pleased.

"Did you see them?" Tooru asks now.

Iwaizumi covers his mouth with his hand as he laughs—quietly. “Of course not. I just didn’t want you going in again.”

Their eyes lock—Iwaizumi’s narrowed in amusement—and Tooru feels that strange awkwardness again, hyperaware of Iwaizumi standing over him with his feet planted on either side of a sports bag, his left hand on the handle. His plain face looks more handsome in this light, rugged instead of rough—though that isn’t anything new; he’s nowhere near as ugly as Tooru makes him out to be. Still, it’s disconcerting. Maybe it’s because Tooru’s having to look up at his friend, instead of down, or Iwaizumi’s protective stance, but there’s an awareness that shoots through Tooru, and it’s different from all the aches he was feeling earlier, different from anything, and it makes him break eye contact in favor of looking at the floor.

He clasps his hands together, suddenly realizing his palms are sweating.

"You okay?" Iwaizumi asks after a moment of silence, and Tooru glances back up. The awareness is still there; it wasn’t a fluke.

"Yeah," he says, and his voice feels a little thick. For once, no teasing words come to mind. "Yeah, of course."


	2. October

“She’s coming this way,” Tooru says, pulling at Iwaizumi’s arm. He isn’t sure what his plan is, but he knows he wants Iwaizumi’s bulk between him and the girl storming after him in case it fails. Iwaizumi resists, though.

“Why do I have to come?”

“She’s violent!” Tooru hisses. He’s not sure she is, but after a series of increasingly strange emails last night and a day spent hiding from her, he’s ready to assume the worst. “She wants to use my bones as toothpicks. Please, Iwa-chan.”

Iwaizumi doesn’t say anything, but this time when Tooru pulls at him he doesn’t resist; instead he runs with him, around the corridor and—there. The broom closet, the door slightly ajar.

“In there!” Tooru says, wrenching Iwaizumi into the small space. Iwaizumi starts to object, but Tooru closes the door before he can say a word, keeping a hand on the doorknob in case he tries to escape.

“Just for a minute, Iwa-chan. Until she’s gone.”

“You’re actually afraid of this one?” Iwaizumi asks, his voice different—concerned, this time.

“It’s probably nothing,” Tooru says.

“If this is just some drawn-out lesson about how you drive women crazy—”

Tooru’s hand shoots out in the direction of Iwaizumi’s mouth, pressing down when he finds it. Iwaizumi stills immediately, his breathing slowing to make less noise. Outside there are steps, loud and purposeful, though the girl’s stopped calling for him at least. He hated that; she calls him just _Tooru_ , as if she knows him.

He lets his head drop onto Iwaizumi’s shoulder, wishing he didn’t feel so fragile. He’s felt off-balance ever since the day on the train, and this is the second fan he’s managed to offend in the two months since then; his easy manners seem to have deserted him in the wake of realizing he’s in love with his best friend.

Iwaizumi pets his ribcage awkwardly as the girl passes, and it makes him crack a smile. Iwaizumi isn’t great at comforting people off the volleyball court, but he tries. Tooru takes a long breath of Iwaizumi-scented air—masculine, familiar—and lets it fill him until the retreating steps outside barely register.

“I think she’s gone,” Iwaizumi whispers, and Tooru draws back. He can still feel the heat of Iwaizumi’s body against him and his breath against his jaw, distracting him from the tube poking into his back.

“A little longer, to make sure,” he says, and Iwaizumi doesn’t protest.

He’s a coward. He’s always been a little bit of a coward, never wanting to show his real feelings or how much he cares, but he’s not used to being a coward around Iwaizumi. There was never any point; they knew each other too well to fool each other. But how could Iwaizumi ever anticipate this?

“You sure you’re okay?” Iwaizumi asks, and his voice is just a little strained. Tooru feels strained, too, but for him it’s the proximity—tantalizing and torturous at the same time; where his best friend’s body used to be a fixed point in the background he’s now achingly aware of it.

“I’m fine. We can go.”

_Before I do something stupid._

Iwaizumi grabs for the door handle, letting out a sigh of relief—Tooru hears the knob turning—and then there’s a sound of gears refusing to shift, a dull thud instead of a latch retracting.

The door doesn’t open.

“We’re locked in,” Iwaizumi says, with zero inflection in his voice—and that’s how Tooru knows it’s bad.

“I’m sorry!” he says quickly, suddenly guilt-stricken. “I’ll call one of the younger players—”

“Yeah? With what phone?”

Tooru’s insides turn to ice. His phone—which is in his bag in the classroom, discarded when he saw the girl approaching.

Lying next to Iwaizumi’s bag, which probably also has his phone in it.

“Shit,” he says softly.

“Shit,” Iwaizumi echoes, his voice strangely constricted.

Tooru takes a deep breath, trying to calm himself. He’s panicking—he’s been panicking since he saw that girl coming and realized how much he didn’t want her to blame him for anything—for leading her on, or giving her false hope—whatever he’s done wrong in her eyes. All he’d done was kiss her because she asked, because he was bored, because she was pretty, because he was confused—and that was meant to be it.

That was before the emails. He knows he was careless, but he’d apologized for that. And now he’s dragged Iwaizumi into this.

“Iwa-chan,” he says, calmer. “I’m going to make noise, okay?”

He hears Iwaizumi grunt an affirmation, and then he starts knocking on the door, calling for anyone—even if it’s the girl. If anyone hears him, they don’t let on.

“Stop for a minute,” Iwaizumi says. “Let’s just wait until we hear something.”

Tooru moves back, trying to give his friend space. “Okay.”

They stand in the darkness opposite one another. Tooru has to stoop to keep his head from hitting some loose sticky-out thing that may clatter down on top of them if he’s not careful, and Iwaizumi seems to be leaning back against the metal shelves Tooru saw in a glance as they ran in, judging by his mouth being lower than usual. There’s some space between them, but not much, and he’s aware of Iwaizumi’s every breath—and knows those breaths keep hitching, as his own are tempted to do. It makes him feel light-headed, the thought of how close they are, Iwaizumi’s irregular breathing, all the places they could touch if he moved just a little. The heat of Iwaizumi’s body radiates into his chest. It’s not possible for his friend to like him back, is it? Even if those are the signs, it’s not—

A hand clutches at the front of his shirt.

“Iwa-chan?”

“T-tooru, I’m—”

A lot of things happen at the same time: Iwaizumi’s hand twists in his shirt, drawing it tight; his own breath stops at the sound of his first name on Iwaizumi’s lips in that broken voice… and he remembers a time when they were both children, when Iwaizumi had broken a cloth play maze trying to claw his way out of it.

Afterwards Hajime had sworn up and down that he hadn’t been scared, but Tooru had suspected; he hasn’t thought of it in years though.

“Iwa—Hajime.” His hands settle over the one twisted in his shirt. “You’re okay. We’re both okay.”

“Of course we’re okay,” Hajime chokes out, sounding panicky. Tooru continues in his most soothing voice.

“There’s lots of oxygen streaming in from under the door,” he says. “And the door’s wood. I bet, if we really tried, we could bust through it. But I don’t think we should try that yet.”

Hajime’s gasping breaths are his only response, which he takes as a sign to continue.

“It might help if you talk back, but you don’t have to.”

“I hate when you’re actually helpful,” Hajime says, folding forward to plant his head on Tooru’s chest. His voice is weak, his breathing still louder than it should be.

“You just hate needing help,” Tooru says, wondering if he can touch Hajime now or whether that’ll only make him feel like the walls are closing in on him. He isn’t a hundred percent sure how claustrophobia works, but he has a feeling hugging it out won’t be the answer.

“I hate needing it from you, you mean.”

“Really? Just me?”

Hajime is silent for a long time, then: “No. I guess it’s… sort of nice.”

“Finally, some recognition. Iwa-chan is so stingy.”

“Shut up.”

“You don’t mean that. Hey, Hajime?”

“You’re still calling me that?”

Tooru pouts. “You’re the one who said boys in middle school and high school don’t call each other by their first names, not me. I only call you by your last name because you want me to.”

There’s a long silence, long enough for him to notice Hajime’s breathing has steadied. It’s still a little fast, but it’s not gaspy like it was, even if he can feel the sweat from Hajime’s forehead through his shirt. Hajime. Iwaizumi. It’s strange, to know both those names—the one that belongs to his childhood friend, the boy he shared everything with, and the other that belongs to the person he lives to antagonize, his teammate and his best friend. They’re the same person, and Tooru loves both—but it feels just a little weird to pretend Hajime is _Iwaizumi_ to him all the time.

“Like you ever actually call me by my last name,” Iwaizumi complains, and Tooru grins.

“I wouldn’t want you to take yourself too seriously. Are you feeling better?”

“Yeah, I am. Thanks.”

Tooru sighs, suppressing the urge to apologize again. Teasing Iwaizumi on purpose is one thing; forcing him to face his fears by accident is another. It doesn’t help that his body is happy this way, so close to his friend—as if proximity will substitute for the affection he craves.

“You still need to be distracted though, right?” he says.

Iwaizumi grunts in response, not yes or no—but Tooru takes it as the former.

“Well then, Iwa-chan,” he says, keeping his voice light. “Who do you like?”

He smiles when Iwaizumi laughs, even though his stomach feels tight. Iwaizumi straightens back up, and Tooru braces himself.

“As if I have time to like anyone,” Iwaizumi says. “If even you can’t balance volleyball and dating, no one can.”

“We just weren’t right for each other,” Tooru says, in a moment of complete honesty brought on by darkness and proximity and warmth. “It wasn’t the volleyball. And you don’t have to date someone to like someone, Iwa-chan. So who ranks first?”

Iwaizumi sighs heavily. “What if I don’t like anyone?”

“Well, then, who do you like _most_? Out of the girls in our year.”

“Seriously? Are we twelve?”

“Just answer the question, Iwa-chan. Or are you embarrassed?”

Iwaizumi is silent for a while, then: “Kagome, I guess.”

“The shy one in 3B? What’s special about her?”

“I don’t _like_ her, I just like her the most. And she’s not shy, she’s… self-possessed. I understand her.”

Tooru ignores the churning in his gut. Why did he even ask that question? So he could imagine Iwaizumi with a specific girl, instead of random ones? He’s an idiot.

“You’re wrong,” he says playfully, trying to regain his footing. “You like _me_ the most.”

“Idiot! You were asking about girls.”

“So you admit it?”

“Never. You locked a person with claustrophobia in a closet, you ultimate ass. Shittikawa. Trashikawa.”

Somehow, it feels just as good as confirmation would have felt. Iwaizumi’s insults feel warm, close—and as luck would have it, he hears footsteps in the hall.

He doesn’t waste a moment, beginning to knock on the door hard. “Help! I’m trapped in here with a man-shaped bear! Trapped! Help me!”

Iwaizumi knocks with him, and then they hear a female voice—an unfamiliar one. “I’ll find the janitor! You just wait there!”

Though it’s dark in the closet, Tooru can sense Iwaizumi sag with relief, and the slight trembling that follows. He’d been high-strung, even at the end.

Tooru feels high-strung, too.


	3. November

Hajime has a secret.

Sometimes it feels like a big secret that defines him, and other times it’s the background noise to his life, no more important than what he had for breakfast or how he likes his eggs.

He’s in love with Oikawa Tooru. Has been for years.

He wonders whether, if he’d fallen in love with a girl, he might have done something about it—asked her out, faced the possibility of rejection. With Oikawa he’s never even been tempted, even when his chest feels so tight it hurts, or when he feels light and like they can do anything together. Ignoring his crush is second nature to him by now, but some days—like today—it feels closer and more hopeless than usual. He doesn’t mind loving his obnoxious friend—that’s second nature to him, too, loving Oikawa—he just wishes he didn’t notice him the way he does, in a way that makes him achy and warm. He wishes he might fall in love with someone else or nobody at all.

That would suit him fine, not being in love with anybody. Less highs and lows.

He takes his time in the locker room today, sending Oikawa ahead. His body feels heavy, as if it might crack the bench he’s sitting on. He leans his face in his hands, breathing deeply. In his mind’s eye, he sees the career survey the teacher passed out today, the second one since the school year started. He sees the blank spaces he’s supposed to fill out with what he wants, and wonders why his hand hadn’t moved to fill them in. For as long as he can remember he’s had a plan—study sports medicine, become a physical therapist, have a family, grow old and become one of the embarrassing old grandfathers who drink too much and laugh too loud at festivals—the kind of man Oikawa tells him he already resembles.

It’s at odds with the other things he wants—the primary want being for nothing to change. He wants to keep on being Oikawa’s teammate, for their easy friendship to continue indefinitely, for Oikawa to stay his infuriating self. He knows that’s not how life works.

He feels heavy.


	4. December

Tooru doesn’t mean to tell him. He keeps it to himself—when they walk home together, when they say _goodbye_ or _see you tomorrow_ , when they say _good morning_ the next day. Iwaizumi thinks his strange behavior is from their harrowing experience in the preliminaries, and Tooru lets him.

“Hey, Iwa-chan,” he says when they’re heading out of school one day, wrapped in big coats and scarves against the December chill. “If we go to different universities, will we still spend time together?”

Iwaizumi glances at him, blinking. “I suppose it depends on where we go.”

Tooru’s stomach knots. A lot of the universities Iwaizumi is considering are far away from his options. What if Iwaizumi ends up in Hokkaido? It would suit him to be surrounded by snow and active volcanoes; he’d probably go there just to get rid of him.

No—he’s being self-deprecating. He knows Iwaizumi cares more about him than he lets on.

“I hope we do,” Iwaizumi says, in a tone that says _we’ll see_.

“Tell me before you accept any, okay?”

“Of course. Like I’d keep that from you.”

Tooru nods and flings an arm around Iwaizumi, leaning on him heavily. “Ah, Iwa-chan! I see the end of our rosy high school days approaching! You’ll have to start tucking in your shirt properly. Will you manage? Do you need me to help you?”

Iwaizumi wrestles him off, his cheeks reddening with the exertion. “Shittikawa! I’ll manage! Get off me.”

Tooru doesn’t want to let go, but he does, managing a laugh somehow despite the part of him that wants to cling tight. There’s an ache in his throat, and he wants to hold Iwaizumi for a while—nothing sexual, just stand and rest his head on his shoulder, maybe feel Iwaizumi’s hand wrap around his.

“You should rely on me at least a little,” he whines.

“When I need someone to be a pain in the ass I’ll let you know.”

Tooru sticks his hands in his pockets, smiles. It’s easy to behave like they always have, but he doesn’t feel it like he used to—doesn’t feel glee filling him at Iwaizumi’s admonishments.

“You okay?” Iwaizumi asks in a different voice, and Tooru’s transported back to a few months ago, on the train, when Iwaizumi had asked the same thing.

“Yeah,” he says, just like he did then, voice thick, heart pounding.

Brown eyes narrow. “No you’re not. Something’s up. What?”

Tooru shakes his head.

“Whatever it is, you can tell me.”

“It’s about you. I can’t tell you.”

“What kind of logic is that?”                                      

His street is coming up; if he tells Iwaizumi now, he’ll at least have an assured escape—and maybe if it’s out it’ll stop feeling like a weight in his chest, a constant drag on his energy. He doesn’t quite make the decision to tell him, but the thought of that weight lifting makes something bubble in his stomach, and it travels up his throat past his vocal chords and resolves into words.

“I like you,” he says, shocking himself as much as anyone else.

Iwaizumi blinks. “Oh.”

“Don’t worry, Iwa-chan. I won’t attack you or anything.”

“That—I wasn’t—”

Tooru can see him scrambling for something to say, see the color traveling up from his neck and into his cheeks. Iwaizumi is a good person; he won’t relish rejecting someone, even if it’s him.

“We’ll always be friends,” Iwaizumi says awkwardly. “You know that, right?”

Tooru manages a mirthless smile, glad for the turn-off coming up. “Of course,” he says. “You’re a good guy, Iwa-chan. I know that.”

Finally they reach his street. “See you tomorrow,” he says when he turns away, thinking of Iwaizumi at university in Hokkaido and him somewhere else and Iwaizumi moving on with his life and _we’ll always be friends_ —

He’s crying. He’s in public and his eyes are stinging, his nose beginning to run from more than just the cold. This is stupid. This isn’t who he is, and there’s someone walking behind him—they’ll pass him in just a moment and glance back and see what a sap he is—and then there’s a hand on his shoulder, forcing him to stop and turn around.

It’s Iwaizumi.

He wipes at his face, trying to mop up the snot and tears. “Did you forget something?”

“Don’t walk away and cry,” Iwaizumi says. “That’s—you’re not—what was I supposed to say? We’re two guys.”

“I just got rejected,” Tooru says. “I’m allowed to cry.”

He watches Iwaizumi’s mouth open and close, and Tooru pats his shoulder lightly.

“Don’t worry,” he says, walking away again. “I’ll recover.”

This time, Iwaizumi lets him leave.

 

* * *

 

 

 _I just want everything to stay the same_ , Hajime thinks, looking at the wall. He’s lying on his side in bed, still in his uniform. _Is that so much to ask?_

He closes his eyes. Of course that’s too much to ask; that’s not how life works. It moves on with or without the consent of the people living it. Why had Oikawa confessed? Why had he found himself mumbling platitudes like _we’ll always be friends_ , struck dumb by the impossible happening? It’s not that he wishes he’d accepted Oikawa’s feelings—if he did, they’d both be in for very different lives than they have planned—but he wishes… something.

Maybe that he’d been able to make Oikawa stop crying. Or that he’d held him. Basically anything that doesn’t end with Oikawa walking away from him clearly upset.

He drags himself through the rest of the day and feels his stomach churn when he sees Oikawa the next morning. Oikawa is pretending to be his usual self—the charm seems turned up to a hundred and twenty percent in front of his fangirls—but his eyes slide away from Hajime’s when they meet, and Hajime sees the strain in his face.

“Oikawa,” he starts, when they’re sitting in class together, a desk apart because the teacher insisted on separating them during seat assignments—but Oikawa puts a finger to his mouth in a ‘hush’ sign, smiling.

All Hajime’s words drain out of him—and what had he wanted to say, anyway? _I like you too, but we shouldn’t be together?_ Admitting that would only be cruel—or is letting Oikawa think he’s alone in this the cruel thing? He’s not sure, and class has started before he’s made a decision.

How is it even possible Oikawa likes him, anyway? Oikawa likes girls who keep up with fashion and spend time on their hair in the morning; Hajime hasn’t used a hairbrush since he was ten and realized hands work just as well as a brush on hair as short as his. He’s not pretty like Oikawa is, and for some reason his type of charm seems to work mostly on women over the age of sixty. He’s had a few girls confess to him, but he chalked it up to his position on the volleyball team and as one of Oikawa’s friends—not his looks or personality.

His thoughts continue to spin in concentric circles, all centered around Oikawa. It’s impossible to focus on the lesson, just as it was impossible to focus on his homework last night. He wonders if Oikawa will go to practice this afternoon or if he’ll skip, now that preliminaries are over.

Will it depend on whether Hajime’s there? Will he avoid him, now?

It seems that way. During lunch break Oikawa goes out into the hallway, and before Hajime can go after him Hajime’s usual crowd surrounds him, talking about Christmas parties and winter break and whether they’ll have another arm wrestling tournament during the class party. He can barely follow the conversation, intent on finding an out, but when the bell before class goes he still hasn’t torn himself away. By the time the day’s classes end, his stomach is one tight knot.

He’s not going to let Oikawa avoid him. When Oikawa says he’s not going to practice today, Hajime decides not to go to practice either and follows him to the entry hall. When Oikawa spots him he stares, still holding his outdoor shoes.

“Iwa-chan,” he says under his breath. “I don’t think you really get the point of rejections.”

Hajime’s not sure what to say to that.

“I just need a while, okay? Go to practice. They need someone to mentor them if they’re going to be any good next year.”

“Matsukawa can mentor them just as well as I can,” Hajime says.

“Mad dog-chan will be—”

“I’m walking home with you.” He steps out of his school shoes and into his outdoor ones, closing his locker. “You can run if you want, but I’ll just run after you.”

Oikawa gives in, allowing him to walk out of school with him, and they’re both silent for a while, the wind nipping at exposed skin. Hajime keeps glancing at his friend, noticing his skin tinged pink with cold, the slump of his shoulders, the way he’s no longer putting up a front.

He looks wretched.

“It’s not just you,” Hajime says, feeling like an idiot. “I like you too. But I don’t see it ending well.”

Oikawa looks at him with a strange expression. “What?”

“It’s mutual. I like you. What don’t you understand?”

They stop, in the middle of a gusty walkway along the floodplain. Oikawa is staring.

“Why didn’t you say that yesterday?”

Hajime shrugs. “What does it matter? We’re guys. If we break up, our friendship might be ruined, and if it goes well, we don’t get to have families, or live normal lives. I want to be your friend.”

“You’re an idiot, Iwa-chan.”

“Why?”

“Hmm,” Oikawa says, and his tone is bordering on playful once more. “For telling me, for one thing.”

Hajime waits.                                                                      

“But also for thinking that.” This time, his tone isn’t playful—it’s honest. “Family isn’t about getting married or having children.”

“That’s exactly what family is about,” Hajime says, wishing they were doing this somewhere else. They’re going to freeze solid in this wind; he ducks his head into his scarf, ears stinging with cold.

Oikawa sighs, his flair for the dramatic returning in force. “Iwa-chan, family is about being with people you love. Not blood ties. Our team is a family.”

“ _Friends_ is about being with people you love. Family is about being related or married to people. And you love everyone on the team, really?”

“In my own special way,” Oikawa says. “Forget it, Iwa-chan. Let’s go home. I’ll teach you another time.”

“Nothing to teach,” Hajime grumbles, but he’ll be glad to get out of the wind. Neither of them says anything as they resume the familiar walk back, but Oikawa’s posture has changed, and now it’s Oikawa sneaking glances and Hajime avoiding his eyes.

“Stop looking like that,” Hajime says finally, his shoulders high.

“Like what?”

“Like you’re happy.”                                                            

“But I am happy, Iwa-chan. The person I like likes me back.”

Hajime feels his cheeks warm. “I just didn’t want you to be miserable. My plan hasn’t changed.”

“Doesn’t matter. I’ll change it for you.”

He has no response to that, and afterwards he pretends not to notice how often their shoulders bump, and the way his whole body warms in response to the smile Oikawa throws him when they part ways. When he gets home, he tries to hold on to his resolve—to have a normal life, and do everything the way he’s expected to, and not cause any raised eyebrows—but he can’t ignore the bright feeling he feels spreading through his chest.

It’s addicting.


	5. Christmas Eve

“Is Hajime home?” he hears Oikawa ask from downstairs, and though he’d been sleepily trying to decide what to do with his evening a moment ago, lying on his bed, he shoots up when he hears that.

What is Oikawa doing here?

“He’s upstairs in his room,” his mother says, with the voice she always uses with Oikawa: cheerful, fond. “Yasuo and I were just about to head out.”

“Do you know where, or is it a surprise?”

“A surprise? At my age?” His mother sounds extremely pleased. “We’re not that romantic, you know.”

“It’s not about age, is it? _Youth is a gift of nature, but age is a work of art_. Your husband should work harder.”

She chortles. “Did you hear that, Yasuo?”

Hajime hears his father grumble something from the living room—also fond, but in a grumpier way.

“Go on, then,” his mother says. “He might be asleep, but if he is just wake him.”

“I will!” Oikawa says gleefully, and a moment later there are steps on the stairs. The door to Hajime’s room swings open—and Oikawa looks disappointed to find him awake.

Hajime’s eyes narrow. “Were you going to draw on my face or something?”

“Hmm, no. I was thinking of maybe lying down next to you and saying something when you woke up. Like, _you were great, Iwa-chan_ or _I can’t believe you fell asleep during_.”

Hajime groans. Why does he like this guy again?

“You said you had plans,” he says. He’d been severely conflicted about Oikawa having Christmas Eve plans—half of him wishing he’d spend it with a girl and the other half hurt that he’d do so after confessing to him. He may not have accepted Oikawa’s feelings, but Oikawa acts like he has.

“I had plans with you,” Oikawa says, grinning. He holds up a bag with a bakery logo on it, and closes the door behind him. “You just didn’t know it.”

“Have you forgotten that we’re not dating?”

“Why would I remember a stupid thing like that?”

“Oikawa…”

“Yes?” Oikawa says, setting the bag down and unfolding the small kneeling table they use when they study together up here. He looks up at Hajime. “If you tell me to stop, I’ll stop.”

Hajime has trouble believing that—but he can’t tell Oikawa to stop regardless. It has to be a mutual decision, or he doesn’t have the strength of will to go through with it; he can’t reject Oikawa properly on his own.

“You know this’ll affect you too, right?”

Oikawa nods slowly. “ _Will_ , Iwa-chan? Not would? Are you beginning to cave?”

Hajime sighs and slides off the bed to sit down opposite Oikawa. “Isn’t that obvious?”

The look that spreads across Oikawa’s face makes Hajime’s chest feel light. He doesn’t look cocky, like Hajime might have expected, but delighted—actually, genuinely delighted. There’s even color high on his cheeks.

It’s cuter than Hajime can ever remember Oikawa being.

“I brought cakes,” Oikawa says, taking a box out of the bag and sliding it onto the table. He’s not looking at Hajime, and Hajime gets the sense that he’s nervous.

Because of _him_. How is that even possible?

“I figured I could hand-feed you,” Oikawa says, seeming to regain some of his usual self. “I’d make you say _please_ before every bite. I was imagining it on the way over.”

Hajime feels his cheeks sting. “Idiot. Don’t imagine things like that.”

“I imagine all kinds of things, Iwa-chan. You can’t boss me around in my head.”

He lets his forehead fall against the table, beside the box. His face is too hot. Liking Oikawa had been torturous; dating Oikawa might be worse, in the long run.

But worse in a good way.

“Say _ah_ , Iwa-chan,” Oikawa says. “Lift your head.”

Hajime lifts his head, but only to say where Oikawa can shove his _ah_ s. Unfortunately, there’s a pastry in his mouth before he can finish his sentence.

“Mmm,” Oikawa says, raising his shoulders blissfully and smiling. “Right?”

Hajime bites off half the pastry and shoves the other half in Oikawa’s mouth—who pretends like it’s a lover’s offering, his tongue flicking out to lick a crumb off Hajime’s thumb after having the pastry forced into his mouth. Hajime wonders if blushes become permanent if they stick around too long.

“Have fun, you two!” his mother calls from downstairs, and he jumps guiltily. “We’re off!”

The front door slams a moment later.

Hajime swallows despite his suddenly dry mouth, leaving a rich aftertaste of cream and strawberries.

At least Oikawa looks a bit nervous, too.

“Hey, Iwa-chan?”

“What?”

“Can I kiss you?”

Hajime stares—at Oikawa’s eyes and then his mouth. He swallows again, imagining Oikawa’s mouth on his. It would be weird, right? Not just kissing, which he hasn’t done before, but also kissing his best friend.

He sort of wants to, though. He’s used to touching Oikawa casually, and sitting close to one another, and the roughhousing that comes with being on a team—but gentle touches are different.

“Okay,” he says, his breathing shallow, and Oikawa crawls over to his side of the table. His palms start to sweat instantly.

“You’re scowling,” Oikawa says, and Hajime tries to stop—but he isn’t really sure what his face is doing.

Oikawa laughs. “It’s fine, Iwa-chan. How would I know it was you if you didn’t?”

Hajime’s going to reply, but then Oikawa’s leaning towards him and there’s breath against his lips—sweet breath that smells like the pastry they just shared—and Oikawa’s mouth brushes against his warmly: once, twice—and then he feels Oikawa’s tongue run along the seam of his lips—and then Oikawa is drawing back, hiding his face in his hands.

“Weird! It’s weird! It’s too weird, Iwa-chan.”

“Shittikawa! You’re the one who wanted to!”

Oikawa peers out from over his hands. “I still do.”

“What do you mean you still do, if it’s too weird?”

“We have to ease into it,” Oikawa says, flopping down onto the floor and laying his head in Hajime’s lap, turned away from him. “I’m used to doing those things with people I don’t really care that much about.”

Hajime lifts his hand, draws his fingers gently through Oikawa’s hair. This is weird, too, but—nice. He watches Oikawa’s eyes close.

He’s not used to touching people gently, especially not Oikawa.

“Okay,” he says.                                                                                                 

“Okay to what?”

“Everything.”

Oikawa shifts in his lap to face upwards, eyes opening, and smiles.

“Good,” he says.


	6. February

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This fic was "complete" last chapter but I wanted to add to it (which may happen a few more times). Notice that this chapter made the rating go up, so be aware of that if sex stuff makes you uncomfortable!
> 
> (Nana, I am so sorry for posting this while you're at work. Deep down, I live to torture you.)

Tooru traces his fingers along Iwaizumi’s spine, pausing at the small of his back. He draws a circle there: one, then another. Iwaizumi lies on his front with his head pillowed in his arms, eyes closed, making a very faint humming noise. He’s still wearing his uniform.

Tooru imagines the scene differently: imagines them lying on his bed in other circumstances, imagines them both naked and blissed-out and peacefully recovering from mindblowing sex. He has to use his imagination for an image like that; they haven’t had sex yet, mindblowing or otherwise—and Tooru is starting to fixate on the idea.

The quiet of the room and Iwaizumi’s calm lulls him into an honest mood, makes him feel like he could say anything and it’d be okay, here with his head pillowed on his arm and Iwaizumi quiet under his touch.

“If we had sex, would you ever bottom for me?” he asks into the not-quite-silence. He’s imagined both scenarios, of course, but he’d never assumed—well. He’d never assumed.

Iwaizumi’s eyes open. “What?”

Tooru draws back his hand in case Iwaizumi takes it into his head to break his fingers. He props himself up on his elbows. “You know, bottom. The one who’s on the receiving end.”

He tries not to look as embarrassed as he feels. Bringing this up was a bad idea. It was _definitely_ a bad idea. He’s going to be murdered; Iwaizumi is a macho man, he doesn’t—

“Yeah, probably,” Iwaizumi says, rolling onto his side to look at Tooru better.

Tooru stares.

“What? You expected me to say no?”

“I expected you to break my fingers.”                                                                                   

“You think I’m that shallow?”

“Iwa-chan, _everyone’s_ that shallow.”

Iwaizumi considers it, and Tooru feels his face itch under Iwaizumi’s careful scrutiny; Iwaizumi is seeing more in his expression than he’d like to reveal, he knows, but he can’t hide whatever Iwaizumi is reading away because he has no idea what he’s looking for.

“You see being on the receiving end as something embarrassing,” Iwaizumi says. It’s not a question.

Tooru’s face heats up. “I don’t! It’s just societal, um, expectations.”

“You thought it was degrading so you were gonna do it.”

Tooru’s stomach squirms. He wouldn’t put it like that—but Iwaizumi takes his silence as agreement.

“Okay, _now_ I want to break your fingers,” Iwaizumi says, but he doesn’t do anything of the sort; all he does is flick Tooru’s forehead. “What made you think that, idiot?”

“I thought…” Tooru begins, but he realizes as the sentence forms in his mind that it’s another thought Iwaizumi will get annoyed at. Tooru thought that he cared more, and therefore he’d be the one to make all the concessions. He still thinks that, really. He’s the one who talked Iwaizumi into this despite his reservations.

“Keep going,” Iwaizumi says, his eyes narrowed.

Tooru flaps a hand. “I pushed you, so…”

“You pushed me, huh?”

“You didn’t even want to go out,” Tooru says. He remembers it well: the relief of knowing Iwaizumi liked him back coupling with the confusion of Iwaizumi’s resolve not to act on it. He’s glad Iwaizumi could be talked out of that resolve, but he hasn’t forgotten that he was the one who insisted on this, that _he’s_ the one responsible if everything comes crashing down.

Iwaizumi sighs. He sits up, and Tooru rolls onto his back to look up at him.

“I’m not that easygoing,” Iwaizumi says seriously. “You couldn’t make me do anything I didn’t already want to do.”

Tooru’s throat feels thick. He’s not sure how the conversation got so heavy, but it did and now he’s having trouble even looking at Iwaizumi; the air between them is tense, and not in the fun way.

Unexpectedly, Iwaizumi reaches for him. He lays his hand on Tooru’s chest and lets it rest there: a heavy, warm weight. “You’re an idiot,” he says quietly.

Tooru sniffs, trying to dredge up his usual dramatics. “So mean.”

Iwaizumi retracts his hand, scratches his jaw in awkward habit. “I’m not saying I’d like it,” he says slowly, and for a moment Tooru is lost, wondering what he’s talking about.

_Oh. Him bottoming._

Tooru’s face floods with color. “I was only asking hypothetically.”

“I get that it’s only hypothetical,” Iwaizumi says, and a ghost of a smile appears on his face. “After all…”

Tooru smacks his leg. “That was once. I got nervous.”

“Once?”

Okay, maybe Tooru’s backed out of things when they got hot and heavy more than just once. He can’t help the weird mix of anxiety and weirdness and guilt he feels at dating his childhood friend. He’s not sure how it’s possible to be so attracted to someone and simultaneously unable to be intimate with them, but he’s getting really tired of it.

He moves to sit up and grabs Iwaizumi’s chin. He presses their lips together and uses every ounce of experience he has—which isn’t that much, all things considered—to deliver the most languorous, lingering kiss he can possible give. He ignores the crawl of tension in his belly at Iwaizumi’s changed breathing in favor of sliding his tongue just so, letting his teeth scrape Iwaizumi’s bottom lip just the tiniest bit.

The tenuous control he has over the situation evaporates when Iwaizumi grabs him. They fall in a tangle of limbs, Iwaizumi kneeling over him, his square hands cupping Tooru’s face. He kisses angrily, almost, and the twist of arousal Tooru feels in his abdomen leaves his toes curling. The forceful press of Iwaizumi’s mouth—his tongue—leaves Tooru breathless, and soon he’s clutching at Iwaizumi’s shirt, pressing up against him.

But Iwaizumi draws back.

“Don’t think you’re the only one who wants this,” Iwaizumi says. “Dumbass.”

Tooru stares, sits up. “You’re mean, Iwa-chan.”

“ _You’re_ mean. Acknowledge my pain, would you?”

A laugh escapes Tooru. “Your pain?” Iwaizumi has been stoic as hell since he was a child; if there’s one thing he doesn’t want acknowledged it’s his pain.

“Yeah. I’m in love with a total idiot who thinks he always has to do things alone.”

Tooru hides his face between his drawn-up knees, puts his arms over his tucked-in head. He feels so uncool after Iwaizumi says things like that; his whole body feels like it’s vibrating with giddiness, and every shred of irony leaves him.

“Iwa-chan?”

“Yes?”

Tooru stays quiet. He isn’t sure what to say, and anyway, he wants to ask Iwaizumi to kiss him again but that’s likely to lead to boners and boners lead to both of them getting awkward and pulling back in a cloud of sexual frustration.

“I wish I could just—” Tooru starts in sudden irritation, but he stops a moment later. No. Nope. He’s not going to say it.

“You wish you could?”

“Never mind.”

Iwaizumi shakes him, and Tooru clamps his mouth shut. Iwaizumi can be a brute all he wants but Tooru won’t cave, he won’t, not even when Iwaizumi jabs him in the ribs, making him unfold, or when Iwaizumi finds the sensitive skin at his side and tickles him, and just keeps tickling him, and oh god make it stop—

“Fine!” Tooru cries. “I wish I could touch your—your—”

Oh god. He can’t say it.

Iwaizumi lets his hands hover threateningly over Tooru’s sides, and Tooru ducks away.

“Your horseman.”

Iwaizumi folds over, his laugh long and loud. “My _horseman_? That’s what we’re calling dicks these days?”

“Fine! I wish I could just touch your dick! But I get so…” Tooru trails off, throwing his hands up to illustrate a concept he can’t put into words. He hasn’t been shy since he learned how to smile and say what people want to hear, read their reactions in their faces—but this new thing with Iwaizumi has reacquainted him with the feeling, bigtime.

Having a crush on his best friend is _hard_. It makes his hands feel useless, his whole body foreign to him. The mix of familiar and unfamiliar is compelling and repellant at the same time.

Iwaizumi puts his hand on Tooru’s foot, looking solid as ever. “You’ve just built it up in your mind.” He snorts. “I mean—god. We’re talking about my dick here.”

The dismissive way Iwaizumi says that nearly makes Tooru defensive. He’s thought about Iwaizumi’s dick a lot, in various ways, and it’s always been a good time for him. It’s just the real thing he’s awkward around.

“I mean it,” Iwaizumi says. “You don’t have to do anything, but if you want to you just have to stop thinking so much.”

“You say that like it’s possible! Just because your brain is all muscle doesn’t mean mine is.”

Iwaizumi grins. “It has its advantages.”

“Wait.” Tooru’s brows draw together. “Does that mean you want to? When we’re making out, you could keep going?”

He knows Iwaizumi’s _body_ wants to be intimate, but he was under the impression both of them pulled back when things got hot and heavy—not just him.

Iwaizumi looks vaguely embarrassed. “Well, I’m not going to keep going while you’re obviously uncomfortable, am I?”

“But you _want_ to? Touch me?”

“Is this dirty talk?” Iwaizumi asks with a raised eyebrow.

Tooru glares. Trust Iwaizumi to pick the worst possible moment to act flippant.

“Fine, fine,” Iwaizumi says. “Yeah, I could keep going, and yeah I want to, but I’m not going to when you don’t want to. Naturally.”

Tooru swallows with some difficulty, imagining Iwaizumi holding back for him. His body is getting hot in that helpless, don’t-know-what-to-do-with-it way.

“Let’s do it,” Tooru says, on a whim. “Let’s have sex.”                   

Iwaizumi flicks his forehead. “Idiot. You’re obviously still scared. I’m not gonna.”

Tooru glares.

“Okay, if you want to, I’ll touch you,” Iwaizumi says. “But you don’t touch me.”

“Huh?”

“I don’t want to traumatize you, idiot.”

Tooru narrows his eyes. “Oh, please.”

Iwaizumi snorts. “I didn’t mean it like that. I just mean I don’t want you doing things you’re uncomfortable with.”

Tooru’s ready to argue, but Iwaizumi’s leaning in, and he flattens Tooru against the mattress again, gentler this time. His mouth is warm on Tooru’s, and carefully Tooru lets his hands wander, sliding them up under Iwaizumi’s shirt, feeling smooth skin and the jut of Iwaizumi’s hipbones.

Tooru’s exhale against Iwaizumi’s mouth is shuddery. A button of Iwaizumi’s shirt catches against one of his, and he realizes how close they are, Iwaizumi lying almost on top of him.

Somehow, the usual nervousness feels a step away—as if Iwaizumi’s assurances were all he needed. His body turns to fire under Iwaizumi’s slow-moving mouth, his hands. Iwaizumi’s kisses are still clumsy, and predictably straightforward, but they leave Tooru wanting more.

And today he’s getting more. Maybe.

His breath hisses in through his teeth when he feels Iwaizumi move, pressing kisses to Tooru’s neck. He nearly doesn’t notice Iwaizumi undoing the buttons of his shirt one-handed.

 _Iwa-chan is smoother than I give him credit for_ , Tooru thinks to himself, closing his eyes tightly as he lets his head drop back. It feels totally wrong to be the one being lavished with attention, but he doesn’t quite have the strength of will to stop it.

The shirt loosened, Iwaizumi runs his hand over Tooru’s chest. Tooru bites his lip at the feel of Iwaizumi’s calluses dragging across his skin combined with Iwaizumi’s lips against his neck, and he knows he’s erect and this is usually when he starts to be embarrassed but the total lack of control makes it easier somehow.

“Iwa-chan, you’re—”

Tooru doesn’t get a chance to finish his sentence. The hand that was caressing his chest and stomach has dropped down to cup him through his trousers, and his leg jerks up and his breath falters and his heart just about _stops_. This isn’t just the incidental brushing of Iwaizumi’s thigh or abdomen against him; it’s Iwaizumi caressing him through two measly layers of fabric.

And it makes his body cry out for that fabric to be gone.

“Iwa-chan—”

“Stop?” The hand stills.

“ _No_.”

Iwaizumi’s hand and mouth resume their movement, and Tooru shudders.

“I should be touching you,” he says, his hands moving to grab for Iwaizumi. He wants to. He can’t just let Iwaizumi take the lead—

“Next time,” Iwaizumi says. Tooru thinks he can feel Iwaizumi’s erection against his hip, but when Tooru moves to wriggle against it Iwaizumi holds him still in wordless reprimand. Tooru doesn’t try again.

His mind is foggy.

Iwaizumi’s hand continues to move, and Tooru can feel his underwear getting wet with precum; it should be embarrassing but something about Iwaizumi’s brash determination makes it not embarrassing at all. And besides, Iwaizumi must like it, right? Tooru can still feel him hard against his hip, and his mouth is getting rougher; there are teeth against his skin now where Iwaizumi was careful to keep them away earlier.

“Can I touch?” Iwaizumi asks, and Tooru nods quickly, as if the offer will pass if he doesn’t give permission soon. He feels like he’s tied together by flimsy string, and that string comes close to snapping when he feels Iwaizumi’s hand under his underwear, directly against him. He knows he makes some animal sound; he prays Iwaizumi won’t mention it later like Tooru would in his position.

Tooru clutches at sheets, kicks his ankle against the mattress, tries desperately not to thrust up into Iwaizumi’s hand, so different from his own.

“Iwa-chan—” He’s not sure if the whine in his voice is panic or pleasure. Perhaps Iwaizumi knows; he moves up to press his lips against Tooru’s once more, and Tooru cranes his neck trying to deepen the kiss, needing something to hold onto. His harsh breathing sounds desperate to his own ears; he feels out of control.

He’s about to be out of control.

When he finds himself pressing up into Iwaizumi’s hand despite his attempts not to he tries to gasp out a warning, knowing he’ll come soon—but it’s the thrust of Iwaizumi’s erection against his hip in response to those gasped words that undoes Tooru; it’s unconscious, and Iwaizumi pulls back immediately as if the movement was a momentary loss of control, and Tooru imagines him not pulling back. He _wants_ to touch Iwaizumi, wants to do all sorts of things to him; he can’t believe he was so shy, so awkward, he wants to—

He bites his lip as he comes, a haze of fantasies over his vision. Bliss trembles through him, telling him to lie back and relax and never move again, let Iwaizumi wipe off his stomach as he seems to be intent on, but a thought penetrates the fog:

Iwaizumi is still hard.

Tooru grabs for him, and Iwaizumi dodges away. He’s holding more tissues, as if Tooru can’t wipe _himself_ off which is just ridiculous—he doesn’t want Iwaizumi to have to deal with his cum anyway—and Tooru pulls his underwear back in place and fends off Iwaizumi’s hands, trying simultaneously to get to the erection he can still see tenting Iwaizumi’s trousers.

Of course, wrestling with Iwaizumi has never gone particularly well for him; he ends up lying on his stomach on the bed, Iwaizumi pinning him.

“I said next time,” Iwaizumi says.

“This is unfair. Unfair, unfair, unfair—”

“ _Why_?”

“Because you—for me—and I didn’t do anything—”

“Too bad,” Iwaizumi says. “And trust me, you did a lot.”

Tooru stops struggling when he hears the catch in Iwaizumi’s voice. “Iwa-chan, are you saying you’re going to masturbate to me later?”

“Why would I masturbate to _you_ , Trashykawa?”

But Tooru grins because he knows Iwaizumi is lying, and any time Iwaizumi is thinking of him when they’re not together is a good time. Perhaps unconsciously, Iwaizumi’s hold has loosened, and Tooru rolls over to look at him.

“Aw,” Tooru says, grinning. “I’m honored.”

Iwaizumi’s eyes drop away from Tooru’s face, down to his open shirt and open fly, his underwear still clearly visible. “You’re a mess,” Iwaizumi says, but it sounds almost like a compliment.

Tooru sits up, kisses his surly boyfriend-slash-best-friend. “I’m _your_ mess,” he says, grinning.

 

 

 

Less than an hour later Iwaizumi leaves so he’ll be home in time for dinner. Tooru tries to make him stay, but there’s novelty in being separated too, at least right now. Tooru waits—imagines Hajime at the dinner table at the Iwaizumi household, pretending everything’s normal, clearing dishes away after the meal—and when Tooru’s pretty sure it’s around the time Iwaizumi would go to his room, he whips out his phone.

 _have a good time, iwa-chan <3_, he sends.

There’s no reply, at least not yet, but Tooru imagines Iwaizumi getting the message and groaning—or perhaps he doesn’t groan. Perhaps he’s too far gone to groan, or too far gone to check his phone. Perhaps he’s already thinking of Tooru and their time together today, and Iwaizumi’s the one muffling moans now—

Tooru feels a stirring low in his body, and _he_ groans. He throws his arms over his face and feels briefly but intensely embarrassed at his body rearing to go a second time just imagining Iwaizumi. So uncool.

He resolves not to tell Iwaizumi about it, ever.


End file.
